ARCHIVED A Strange, Sweet Song
by Ms. Writeable This
Summary: The third ? incarnation of this particular story. This version is archived, but a new version should be posted very soon! This story is and always has been my pet project and it will be finished someday.
1. Prologue

So this will be the third time I've reposted this story. :oP But, don't they say third time's a charm? The reason for this repost is mostly because it's been a very long while since I updated. In that time I've changed my pen name (I was formerly known as Music's Enchantment) and I thought that, if I was going to edit my end-of-chapter author's notes to include my new name, I might as well go back through the story and edit anything I thought could be made better! Also, especially in light of the upcoming Phantom sequel _Love Never Dies_, I thought it would be appropriate to finally tell _my_ story of what happened after dear Erik vanished. So here it is, newer and even more improved than ever before, _A Strange Sweet Song_!

**Summary**- The infamous Opera Ghost died that night. He died the night Ubaldo Piangi was found strangled backstage. He died the night Christine Daae was once again kidnapped and taken to the kingdom of darkness that lay beneath the theater. That was the very night in which the Vicomte de Chagny almost lost his life in an attempt to rescue his fiancé. And, in that same evening, the couple was inexplicably set free, unharmed. The hidden lair was discovered, raided, searched, and smashed to pieces. He was never found… but he died there that night. The Phantom lived no more. It was a broken and empty shell of a man that fled Paris after those terrible events. This being too might have ceased to exist had it not been for a last gesture of sympathy from an old friend. It was in this way that he found himself far from the only home-like place he had known, more alone than ever, broken and hurt, but alive. Could he be healed in this new environment? Or would he continue to exist as a tortured soul, feared by and fearing the world? It would take more than an angel to perform such a miracle as was needed to save him.

**Disclaimer**- I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, that honor belongs to Gaston Leroux and the brilliant Andrew Lloyd Webber. All I own are the characters I created. That is, Isabelle and her friends and family.

A/N: My story is not solely based upon any one book, movie, or play. I have taken elements from each as I see fit. I've primarily used the play and movie with some homage to Leroux's fantastic novel here and there. Kay's novel, _Phantom_, has little influence in this particular story aside from some mention of poor Erik's drug addiction. My Erik, as a character, has the personality one might see him portrayed with in the stage performance, a life story that is movie-influenced (basically, he is closer to Christine's age), and, as for his appearance….when I think of Erik, I tend to think of Ramin Karmiloo. :o) I hope that's not too confusing. You'll see as it goes on but if you have any questions feel free to ask! My story picks up, of course, after the disastrous opening performance of Don Juan Triumphant, the exact details of that night being taken from the play.

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**__**Prologue**_

Antoinette Giry paced the floor of her small room. Why she was there, of all places, she was still unsure. Nearly every other person in the building, guests and staff alike, had fled to the streets as soon as the night had fallen to pieces. For "fallen to pieces" was the only way to describe what had happened. Every good thing they had, every bit of prestige gone in an instant. Monsieur Firmin's miserable cry at the sight of Piangi's body had said it all, _"We're ruined!"_. Ruined too was every secret she had kept for so long and so well, every precaution she had made.

_Where_, she thought desperately, _did I go wrong?_

Surely, there must have been something more she could have done to prevent this from happening. Surely she, the only one who knew the whole truth, could have foreseen this. She ran her thoughts back over the last year; new management, Carlotta's temper tantrums, Christine's debut, and then the terrors began. The Opera Ghost had always been discussed in the small city that was the Opera Populaire. He had always been there, blamed for slips and mishaps and vanished powder puffs. But this, all of this, was more than she could have imagined. There had been hangings, falling chandeliers, and kidnappings! He had surely lost his mind entirely, but why? It could certainly not be solely due to one, simple chorus girl, could it? Christine was pretty and kind, to be sure, but simple. Erik was so very far from simple. Certainly he could find little to pique his interest in the naive child. However, it seemed he had.

Antoinette looked now about the room. It was so familiar to her with its scuffed hardwood floors, crammed bookshelf, worn rocking chair, heavy curtained windows, and dressing table covered with portraits. The room itself was as dear to her as any of the possessions in it. Yet, she saw it now with changed eyes. Would this be her home much longer? It had been the first thought of many people after the disaster; the opera house may have to close. Andre and Firmin certainly would not have another look at the place so long as they lived, and many of the patrons would no doubt be frightened away. Gossip could only go so far before it turned from selling seats to keeping people out of them. As she paused by the foot of her bed she found her mind traveling farther back than the horrible evening or the past wild months; years back. Meg had been just a babe. This had been where he'd come to her; the only time he had ever come to her.

She had just put her daughter down to bed and sat reading by a dim lamplight, waiting for her husband to return home. The book was _Hamlet_, she remembered this detail clearly. She'd never been much interested in Shakespeare, opera being her daily occupation, but a friend who had once lived in London had lent her a copy of the tragedy to occupy herself with as the baby adjusted to sleeping through the night. She had lifted her eyes from the page for just a moment and there he stood, a boy of about fifteen, hovering by the doorway and half hidden in shadow.

Even then he had held himself with a haughty and mysterious air. His already significant height was magnified by his lean frame, his pale skin stood out sharply against a shock of black hair that was awkwardly combed in a rather unsuccessful attempt to hide the marred and bare scalp of his right side. A piece of black fabric, hardened and shaped with resin and secured with a ribbon pilfered from the costume room, served as a rudimentary mask. In years to come he would fashion himself a new disguise out of white porcelain and a nearly undetectable hairpiece; but for now he was a boy, a genius boy, but a boy all the same. There would be time later for swishing cloaks and threatening letters. The young Madame had started understandably at the sudden apparition and it took a moment's thought to figure whether he was truly there or not. She concluded he was, for his eyes were fixed on hers, and there could be no denying those eyes. Astonishingly green, deep and piercing; eyes which caught the dim light in just such a way as to make them appear to glow. They were the most living part of that haunted face. When it became clear he would say nothing, Antoinette broke the silence,

"Yes, Erik?" She spoke quietly and with some hesitance; something had to be amiss for him to venture from the cellars.

He seemed somewhat taken aback at being addressed, faltered for a moment, then tentatively stepped forward into the brighter light of the center of the room. She saw now that he was clutching his right hand, there was pain on his face.

"Have…have you hurt your hand Erik?" she offered.

He nodded and looked away; it was obviously uncomfortable for him to have to come above for anything.

"May I see it?" she asked.

Again, he did not reply, but nodded slightly. She rose and slowly crossed the room towards him.

Looking away, the boy held his hand out, palm down, towards Antoinette. It was wrapped in a piece of white cloth; she could see the blood now. She gently took his hand in her own so as to turn it over but no sooner had her fingers brushed his flesh than he jumped as though a shot had been fired and pulled his hand away. She had seen him react like this before and it hurt her every time. Through years of abuse and scorn he had developed a phobia of human contact and compassion, perhaps the only true fear he had.

"Erik," she whispered, trying to sound soothing through her own apprehension, "I must see your hand to help you."

This time he let her unwrap the wound, though he still instinctively trembled at the touch of another person. Her heart again pained for the remarkable boy. For too long the feel of hands on his skin had meant a beating.

It was a rather grisly sight that met Antoinette's eyes. He had acquired a deep gash across his right palm and had tried to mend it himself but, for all his amazing talent, he was still only right handed and had been less than successful. She did not even think to ask what he had done; she rather thought she didn't want to know. Instantly, however, her motherly instincts overrode any hesitance and she silently directed him to a chair.

A few moments later she had completed stitching the wound. Erik had not flinched once through the entire ordeal, though it surely had been painful without any proper anesthetic. _Good Lord, the kind of pain this boy must have already borne._

Still they sat in silence as she wrapped it in a fresh bandage. When all was done he stood and locked those green eyes onto hers again. For a moment she was sure he would say something, but he was gone before the thought fully formed in her brain; gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

"Be careful." She murmured to his nonexistent shadow.

She knew that in the outside world a boy of fifteen would be nearly a man. He would be preparing for whatever occupation he was to take up. He would be learning the ways of society and the world and be introduced to the ways of love. Yes, that was what boys of fifteen did in the outside world.

Erik was not meant for the outside world.

In so many ways he was far ahead of his age. He was a musical and architectural prodigy, a master magician and a ventriloquist, improving his remarkable skills by the day. Yet, in many other ways, he was a child; a lost, lonely child who still waited for the love of a long dead mother and a long gone father.

No, Erik would never be meant for the outside world.

Madame Giry, aged and widowed, stood, staring into oblivion, lost in this reverie, for a long while. It was not until a shrill voice sounded in her doorway that she was stirred back to reality.

"Mamá!"

Antoinette turned suddenly to find her daughter, now grown into a young woman, flying into her bedroom, very distressed. She was still dressed in the costume she'd worn for the performance, shivering from the lack of warmth its design provided.

"Oh, Mamá! I was so worried, we've been looking for you all over!" the blonde haired girl threw her arms around her mother's neck in a relentless embrace, "When you weren't outside after…I thought you might have…" Meg Giry couldn't finish her statement. She didn't want to contemplate what might have happened to her mother. Instead she hugged her all the more fiercely, blinking tears out of her eyes.

"Hush, child. I have been here all along." She patted her daughters back soothingly, but all the motherly love in the world could not soothe her at the moment.

"Oh, Mamá!" Meg exclaimed again as she broke their embrace, "I was there, I know you said I mustn't but…but I just had to find Christine!" here she choked back a sob and looked to her mother in anticipation of a reprimand. When none came she continued, shakily,

"But when we arrived in the house by the lake. We found _no one_! Not a trace of Raoul or Christine or…I c-can't bear to think what _he's_ done to them!" She spat the pronoun as though it were a lit explosive, to be thrown as far as possible from one's person.

Gathering her trembling child tightly in her arms Madame Giry spoke,

"Meg…Meg, listen to me!" she took the girl's face in her hands and looked into her bloodshot eyes, "Christine and the Vicomte are fine."

"Fine? How do you know? How can you be sure?" she paused a moment then, suddenly struck with a horrifying notion, continued, "Did _he_ tell you that? Do you still think him harmless?!?"

Truth be told, the old ballet mistress was not entirely sure what she thought anymore.

"No…no _he_ did not tell me _anything_."

No, he hadn't told her anything. She had had no idea. She had not foreseen.

"I know they are safe because I saw them myself not an hour ago."

The younger Giry's eyes grew wide as the statement settled in.

"Here? In the opera house, Mamá?"

Madame nodded, "In this very room."

"Mamá you must fetch them! They must speak with the police!"

Meg slipped free from her mother's arms and headed towards the door, but a hand caught her wrist before she reached it.

"No, Meg! They are leaving, going far away. You must let them escape in secret!"

"But…the police…"

"Everyone will be assured of their safety in time." She sighed rather involuntarily. The past weeks were beginning to catch up with her, "Come, let us join the others."

With that she led her daughter, who was still lost in contemplation of her friend's fate, out of the small room.

When they finally reached the grand front steps of the opera house quite a sight met their eyes. The multitude of people that inhabited the building, some of whom never saw the light of day, had emptied onto the streets of Paris. Carlotta was caterwauling from where she lay prostrate on the bottom step. Firmin ran to and fro running his hands through his hair, shouting needless orders to any who would hear. His friend Andre, meanwhile, sat on a step a distance off, muttering to himself and blankly staring. The vast majority, however, stood in huddled groups talking quietly. None wanted to leave, not until they were sure that whatever had caused such chaos was done away with.

"Madame Giry! Meg!" called one of the younger stagehands as they made their way down the steps. His name was Martín Derbeux and he had long harbored some affection for the blonde ballerina, explaining his relief at the sight of them.

"Don't fear now, Meg. We've just been told that they've caught sight of the beast in some alley near the Rue Scribe side. We'll catch him directly and then we can all go safely home."

After a moment's pause he continued in his usual forthright manner,

"Imagine the list of charges they've got on his arrest warrant. They should really just shorten it to being an outright monster, saves ink. It doesn't really matter, in any case. The devil will get his due, quite literally. They won't be showing _him_ any mercy, mark my words; especially with the involvement of the de Chagnys. No, he'll get his and then some."

Meg nodded appreciatively. Though it was hard to say if it was for his words or his blue eyes.

Madame Giry, meanwhile, had been struck with a sudden image. The image of a scared young boy with black locks and green eyes. They would drag him away with heavy hands, to court, in front of multitudes. Away from the opera and his music. They would question him, torment him. Dear God…they would remove his mask for all to see. He would not withstand it, could not. And it was simply not fair! It had been _they_ who had made him this way. The selfsame _they_ who now sought him out. The _they_ that had sent him into hiding, told him he was unfit for the society. He had done wrong, but so had the world. Antoinette Giry could not stand for such hypocrisy. Moreover, she could not bear to see that scared little boy be lead to the guillotine.

As she ran desperately towards the Rue Scribe, ignoring her daughter's questioning cries, a single thought resonated in her head.

_He will never be meant for the outside world._

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Well, I hope you have enjoyed the prologue and I do hope you will stick around to read what becomes of dear Erik! I intend to update once every two weeks or so but I have a lot of things to do outside of fanfiction (like getting into college) so please don't hate me if I'm a bit delayed in my updates! :o)

Until next time, I remain…

Your Obedient Authoress,

~Ms. This


	2. The Blood on One's Hands

This chapter is told from Erik's POV. I like to switch POV fairly frequently in my writing as it helps me to develop characters and justify their actions. I want you to know as much about all of them as I do! For now I'll probably stick to one POV per chapter or series of chapters. But, as things progress, there might be times where I switch mid-chapter.

Enjoy!! :o)

Disclaimer- I don't own Phantom of the Opera…I don't own anything at all! :o( Well, my fictional characters are mine…but I start to wonder if that's healthy. **sigh** Writers are a crazy lot, aren't we?

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_**Chapter 1 – "The Blood On One's Hands"**_

It was truly finished now. Really, there was no point to his frantic running. Winding though the alleys of Paris may be, they would do nothing to save him from the mob of stagehands, actors, patrons, and ordinary street people; all set out for the sole purpose of assuring the demise of the beast that had by now panicked the entire City of Lights. Yet, whether for pride or primal instinct, he could not will himself to stand still, to throw himself before their fury, and to give up. So run he did.

Blindly, he fumbled down any street and around any corner that looked promising, grasping every handhold his shaking fingers could find. His eyes could not aid him, they were clouded by tears or his own mental state, he knew not which. Then, as he turned another dark corner, a shock up one arm awoke him to some semblance of reality. A loose nail, a splinter, a sharp cornerstone; some unknown object had pierced his hand and he watched, almost transfixed, as deep red pigment drew patterns across his palm.

He bled… perhaps he was human. Whether that was a comfort or a torment he could not decide. For if he was, in fact, human, his actions against his own kind were surely inexcusable. If he was truly a monster, then he had no right to live among men. As this paradox floated across his fog-filled mind, he was still. His running ceased as he thought of himself, for the first time in God knows how long, as part of the world of men. For he was indeed part of it, however much he tried to exist elsewhere. From the moment of his birth he had been hidden, put away in an attic like a particularly moth eaten coat, concealed behind a mask of cloth and shame. But no amount of darkness can keep a human isolated from the flow of life that is all around. And so, though the entire world seemed to believe that he needed to be somehow imprisoned, he saw, experienced, and accomplished more than almost any of them.

Yet, never had he felt like a true, living man. Always, whether he was being abused by the gypsies or pampered in the Persian palaces, he was seen as a novelty. He was never an equal, never a person to be treated as social customs insisted, but rather a strange trinket that was taken care of differently by different owners. Even when he had at last been taken to the sanctuary of the opera house by the young ballet teacher who would become his only friend, he still felt less than human, perhaps even more so than before. While he no longer had to worry about physical attacks from others he now had to contend with a mental attack from within himself.

The longer he spent underground, in his own surreal palace of covered mirrors and dripping candelabras, the further he became separated from little Erik. Though he knew he was cleverer than almost any man in the world of light, he still came to look upon himself as an unworthy monster. The more time elapsed, the wilder his ideas became. Soon, he was a demon of hell, a gargoyle, and even a fallen angel. The leap from these things to a fully fledged ghost was not hard to make. And so, the menacing Phantom of the Paris Opera was born; and little Erik hid from him in a dark, secret place. Then, of course, _she_ arrived. He tried valiantly now to think of her name but nothing appeared except a burning pain across his mind.

She had been so beautiful, talented, and so very sad. As soon as he had glimpsed her, he took a liking to her. She seemed to be so like himself in her lost, parentless state. Like himself, but with an angel's face. At first his plan was simply to entertain her in her sorrow. Then it became training her to sing, then to make her a star. Before long, she consumed him entirely and he set every one of his powerful thoughts on the idea that she would become his bride. There was a point in the madness where the voice of young Erik did dare to call out, though quietly. This is not right! She does not know you! You do not know her! She is deceived! This _is not right_! But little Erik was a trinket in the closet and the Phantom thought him a fool.

For a while it seemed that all was happy and good, that his fantasy would be realized, and that he might at last be granted happiness from the God who had afflicted him with a devil's face. Christine gave her soul to him when she sang each night and together they were in bliss. Erik's obsession grew and he believed with his whole being that she loved him as dearly as he loved her. How wrong he had been. How foolish he had been to think that a creature of Hell could be granted any shred of joy in this world. Christine, the one whom he had thought might love his song enough to see beyond his face, had turned from his revolting features and fallen in to the arms of her handsome vicomte. She had rejected him as so many others had done. But this loss he could certainly not survive. If _she_, perfect creature, could not love him, what hope did he have for anything but more hellish torment, more abuse, and a miserable death?

The Phantom of the Opera now stood, frozen in time, watching as warm blood ran down his freezing fingers in thin lines. How strangely poetic that as he was moments from being bludgeoned by an angry mob, the only blood on his hands was his own. The liquid pooled in his palm, covering a fine white scar that he had received as a boy. He had been building the pieces that would later make up his underground home. The wound had been fairly serious. He may even have bled to his death had Madame Giry not been there to stitch it for him. The scrape that so fascinated him now was not nearly as deep but it seemed to be finishing the job the first wound had begun. All those years ago he had started killing little Erik by shutting himself out of reality's light. Now the innocent and brilliant boy's blood was flowing on his hands again as he awaited his final demise. If the Phantom was guilty of murdering anyone, it was the man he once was.

The sounds that reverberated off of the buildings of Paris made it clear that the mob, growing larger and wilder all the time, was nearing its prey. But he wouldn't run anymore, the instincts that had powered him previously now seemed to have been conquered by fatigue and grief. Erik slumped to the ground against a wall, his mind clouded by incomprehensible images and broken phrases from his memory. The scrapes on his fingers began to clot, allowing the blood on his hand to dry to a deep maroon.

Suddenly, new footsteps could be heard, a single pair, separate from the mob. At first he fancied it to be some sort of scout sent by the main group to canvas the area, then,

"Erik!" The quickly materializing figure spoke in a harsh and desperate whisper. All the same, his mind recognized the voice, but he showed no reaction.

"Erik! My God, Erik! Thank the Lord I have found you!" Antoinette ran to his slumped figure and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Why, Madame? So you could kill me yourself? Do as you will. You have more right to my blood than any of them."

Her continual mention of the deity that had created him as an outcast prodded at his painful misery and as a consequence Erik's words came out so bitter that one could hardly perceive his seraphic voice beneath the menace.

"No you mad fool!" was her frantic reply, "Now, get to your feet! They'll be upon us in a moment!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning. Is it that you'd rather I face them standing _like a man_? Or do you merely want to look as though you've caught me yourself?" He had obliged her request and now stood, towering over her petite frame, his voice still an intimidating growl while his face betrayed his all-consuming hopelessness.

The ballet mistress's eyes flashed dangerously. She was of half a mind to slap him for his idiocy while the rest of her thoughts were screaming that she should flee as quickly as possible.

"_No!_ Erik, you must run! Flee not only Paris but France entirely. They will hunt you forever with the de Chagnys backing the effort. I-"

"What makes you so certain that I want to escape them, Madame Giry?" The rage had left his voice, it was flat and empty now, as though his state were beyond telling.

She faltered for a brief moment before continuing.

"I-I will not see you led to the guillotine. I will not! At the same time, why I so want you to live is beyond me. As you said, I have more reason than any in that mob to want you dead; anyone else would say you deserve your just punishment. Even you seem eager to snuff out your genius……do not ask me why I feel as I do, Erik!" she was suddenly furious, "I will not see you tried and killed on my watch! So run, Erik! If for no one else, run for Antoinette Giry who has been your only advocate for all these years."

Erik was astonished to see tears well in the old woman's eyes. He backed away slightly, nervous.

"There is no where for me to go," he managed, "I cannot simply board a train or ship."

"I have a friend from years ago. He quite liked me when I was young and would have proposed if Claude had not beaten him to it. He's a ship captain by day but he smuggles goods across the Channel for a wealthy merchant by night and has been known to take questionable passengers as well. He should take you without questions if you mention my name. Cover yourself with this," Here she produced a wool cloak from over her arm that seemed to have been stolen from a costume room, it was grey as chimney smoke with a black lining that seemed iridescent in the half-light of the alley. Then, she withdrew from the pocket of her own coat a small purse of coins, "This is all that remains of your savings. I'm afraid they found most of what you'd hidden. It should be enough to appease Emile if he demands payment." Finished at last with what she needed to say, Madame Giry seemed suddenly out of words.

Erik, meanwhile, starred aghast at the woman whom had saved him so long ago. He slowly slipped the cloak around his shoulders, making sure the hood hung low over his face, and placed the purse in his own pocket. His rattled brain searched desperately for something to say, but nothing seemed to fit. He could not thank her, as this fleeing was against his every wish and will, but something compelled him to heed the old woman and snatch this only chance for escape. Those green eyes bored into her brown ones for what seemed like endless minutes. Finally, as the mob drew dangerously close, he vanished into the shadows without a word; just as little Erik had done all those years before.

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I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Expect the next, which will be from Christine's POV to be posted in the next day or two! Until then, please review and let me know what you think so far. :o)

Your Obedient Authoress,

~Ms. This


	3. At A Point of Division

That wasn't too long a wait, now was it? :o) Here's Chapter 2! Enjoy!

Disclaimer- I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. At all. But, I _do_ own a really cute pocket-sized copy of the book that my friend brought back for me from England! :o) However, other than that, I own absolutely nothing except the characters I made up.

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_**Chapter 2 – "At A Point of Division"**_

The private compartment of the newly commissioned train was plush and comfortable, clearly designed to make its wealthy occupants forget about the clatter of the tracks and all other woes of traveling. Indeed, the long bench seats were so well cushioned and the general atmosphere of the small space so pleasant, that it would have been easy for anyone to drift off to sleep while inside. It would be easier still for someone to slumber if they were as physically and emotionally exhausted as young Christine Daae, who was stretched out upon one velvet covered seat with a soft pillow under her head and a vicomte's coat serving as a blanket. However, she was not asleep, only pretending. When they'd frantically boarded the train two hours earlier and slipped into the private compartment Comte Philipe had somehow secured for them, the former diva had been trembling and pale. There was not a fiber of her being with any remaining energy and her mind begged for an alternative to dwelling on the evening's events. Yet, drifting off to sleep was out of the question. She had laid down to avoid falling down and held her eyes shut now to keep that look of tremendous worry off of her fiancé's face, but sleep flatly refused, it seemed, to take her.

Christine had thought that when the lights of Paris were well and truly behind them, she might find some peace; that the dread which had settled in her stomach weeks ago might lift itself out and fly back to its origin in the Paris Opera House. It had not. Now, as France disappeared behind them and they sped closer to the De Chagnys' chalet in Switzerland a new kind of fear arrived with sharp, biting teeth and compounded what was already troubling her. _We will be safe._ He had said. _We will be safe in Switzerland. No spirits will follow us there, it's too beautiful. You will love it there, Christine! _But even as she had softened at his innocent words and relished his comforting embrace, her mind told her that she was plunging headlong into a new world with a man she hardly knew. And this was true. The man on the bench across from her was not Raoul, the boy she had eaten chocolates with by the sea, this was the Vicomte Raoul De Chagny, a man of money and influence whose parents might not take to an orphaned chorus girl. The sweetness and wit of the boy who had saved her red scarf did still remain, but he had grown into his title and knew the world while she had lost her father, been sent to an opera house, and become sheltered and insecure.

He had slipped back into her life less than a year ago and though she had never forgotten him and though they fell back into each other's hearts so easily that it sometimes felt as though he had never really gone, the years had changed them both. But, he _had_ saved her from darkness just as he had saved her scarf from the waves, they had spoken of love and marriage just as they had spoken of music and fairy tales, and he had, that very night, rescued her from a monster just like the White Knight she'd always seen him as. Christine was unsure of so many things that it seemed there was little in her head but contradiction. She was as certain as she could be that she loved the young Vicomte, and trusted him as she hadn't trusted anyone in a very long time. However, the case still stood that no matter how many times he assured her that she would be safe and happy evermore with him, she still doubted, was still unsure, and still feared being left alone in the dark again.

Furthermore, there was still the terror of the Paris Opera, far behind her now but never far enough to allow her to shake off the frenzy of the past months. The horror of just a few hours ago burned painfully in her mind; she could still smell the dank, stale air of the catacombs on her clothes, still see the gruesome frozen face of Piangi with a noose about his thick neck, and her ears still rang with a voice that was at once something out of a dream and a nightmare, another dichotomy. Lingering there, repressed beneath the surface of her thoughts was the image of a man with a voice from Heaven and a soul Hell, who spoke beautiful words out of a horrific face, who proclaimed that he loved her while threatening to kill the one person she loved the most, who she had believed to be an angel and who she knew was a madman. It was nearly more than Christine could bear. Everything was divided, split, torn into two parts, like that face. She _wanted_ to run from the pain he had caused her, but she crumbled at the thought of leaving her friends to an uncertain fate and her home, the Opera House, to fall into ruin. She was sitting not on a moving train, but in the center of a long and arduous road, on either side of her there was a great rope, one pulling her towards a life with Raoul, one pulling her towards her life in Paris. _This_, it seemed, was to be her point of no return, not standing unwittingly upon the trap door of a stage.

Christine took a shaky and painful breath, allowing a few tears to slide from her eyes. Pretending to sleep was doing her no good. Raoul, who had been leaning, half-dozing, against the window pane, was at attention in an instant and quickly moved to kneel beside his bride-to-be, placing a hand over hers.

"Christine, darling, what is the matter?" his face was full of concern as he watched her sit up slowly. She was pale and her eyes were far away; she looked far too much as she did when she had been under _his_ control. He placed a hand gently on her cheek, sitting down on the bench next to her as he did so, "Christine?"

She turned to look into his face, seeing the clear blue eyes she had known in her childhood, and allowed herself to dissolve into tears that had been so long in coming.

"Raoul…Raoul, I'm just…frightened!" she buried her head in his shoulder as though her neck could no longer carry the weight of her thoughts.

The vicomte wrapped his arms protectively around her and kissed her head saying,

"There is no need to be afraid anymore Christine! He will never harm you again! I shan't let him! As we speak ever officer of the Paris police is hunting him down," he embraced her tightly and pulled back to look her in the eyes, "You need never be frightened of anything again Christine. I'm here…to hold and guard you, remember?"

He looked at her with such earnestness and simple adoration that she couldn't bring herself to explain that in some ways the prospect of going off to a life of high society and manners with him was almost as frightening as the memories of the past few hours. She offered him a small smile,

"Of course! It's just…so very overwhelming. I suppose the last few months are catching up with me at last." Her voice broke as she thought of how the recent calamities had robbed her of the security, innocence, and naivety she had enjoyed as a simple chorus girl. It had been jarring enough to become a star so suddenly. Now, she was the fiancé of a nobleman; a woman with an uncertain past who would no doubt be the talk of Paris for weeks as rumors flew about a ghost, a kidnapping, and a murder inside the Opera Populaire.

Holding her tightly against him again, the young vicomte spoke in a confident voice,

"You will never want for anything, Christine. We will be happy, I swear to you. I love you, Christine."

Raoul stroked her hair comfortingly, hoping he could somehow calm her and convince her to be at peace, even as he himself was haunted by thoughts of demons and the lingering feeling of a noose around his neck. But the darkness was gone now, he reminded himself, he had saved her from it and he was certain they would both soon forget about the whole dreadful ordeal.

Christine's breaths calmed as she took in his words and his embrace. How could she not believe him? His words made perfect sense; Paris was behind them, a full life was ahead, and whatever stood in their way was no worry at all because they had together come through so much already, Little Lotte and her White Knight. Yes, she was foolish to fear the darkness any longer. Raoul was right, without a doubt, there was nothing and no one that could stop them from being happy. With that comforting thought she deftly cut the rope that led to Paris and allowed the train to whisk her away from the memories that city held, both good and bad; away from friends, away from the shadows and towards a bright new life.

Wrapping her arms around her fiancé's shoulders, returning his embrace, Christine Daae also whispered,

"I love you," before slipping at last into sleep, untroubled by dreams or terrors, for the first time in quite a long while.

* * *

And that's chapter two! I know it's a bit shorter than the last chapter, but I felt that if I tried to add more it would have begun to ramble. Also, to be perfectly honest, I find it very difficult to write from Christine's POV. Even as I wrote this chapter I felt like I was treading a very fine line between getting across the point of her being emotionally distressed and scared, and sounding whiny and repetitive. If you thought it leaned more towards the latter please let me know! I don't think I'll be doing many more chapters from Christine's POV for some time, as the story will now primarily focus on Erik and where his journey takes him.

As always, let me know what you think so far! Any constructive criticism is very welcome! Review! I hope to have the next chapter up within the week. :o) Until then I remain…

Your Obedient Authoress,

~Ms. This


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